Nine Lives

a fake poem for my computer, which died tonight.

oh, computie.

you were there for me

a cancer gift

a perk of that tumor in my neck.

and you were great:

a supplier

of youtube videos

and ryan gosling pictures.

you held

no great novel,

no great poetry,

rather a series of open tabs,

waiting to be read.

oh, computie!

when you hummed

next to me

in bed

i thought your sound

as beautiful

as real as

wall-e himself.

i am sorry

i dropped you,

left you,

kicked you out of bed

for a man.

i am particularly sorry

that you died a cruel, cold

death,

drenched in shocktop raspberry wheat ale

bought on sale

for six ninety nine at ralph’s.

i’ll miss you,

my great white shark,

my beautiful prison of

social media

and self-doubt.

rip.

(does anyone have a computer i can buy?)

tuesday night!

i left the party in a cab because i still do not have a car.

i said los feliz, the driver said he knew because i had given the lady on the phone my address and then i made him go back to the party because i forgot something and well,

i was flustered and short on cash (just the tip), so i gave him a brownie with sea salt and he said thank you and put chris brown on really loud when i tried to singalong.

i googled flights home in the back seat. i tried to think of ways to live everywhere.

i got home but didn’t sleep. 

i remembered why. prednisone!

i feel okay even though i am not completely okay

but i have decided to stop talking about that for a little while, because i think it overwhelms people

and i’m in a new city and i am not in the business of isolating.

plus, like i said, it’s all okay.

because i like my neighborhood, and new music,

and the sunny fire escape right out my window.

and i know tomorrow’s going to be a really nice day.

someone just killed herself on Six Feet Under

La la la…never sleeping again.

where we’re at, right now.

lately (okay, always) i find it hard to reconcile illness with wellness, flush times with downtimes, expecations and depression and happiness.

when i am well, i am well. i am there, with you. with my friends and family and when someone asks how i am feeling i answer “fine, thanks” whether it is true or not.

this is the veil.

but when it flares—and it has so often lately—i have no choice but to drop out, go home to my parents, read in bed. i end up with a mouth full of sores and fatigue that pins me to my bed and i cannot speak to anyone. i am not down for happy hour.

sometimes it gets worse and these are when decisions are made and i am admitted. that is how i know i am sick enough.

i am tired.

in a week i’ll be on vacation, and then maybe i’ll take some time off work to recuperate and heal.

but for now, i would do anything just to sleep, just to sleep a little bit more.

Unhealthy habits

I was doing so well.

My resolutions were being resolved.

I was eating healthier, going to the gym.

And then…

I hit a roadblock.

First there was the whole “blizzard in New York, let’s get drunk” bender. Then I went to Vermont and was intoxicated nearly the entire time. I consumed only chips, salsa, vodka and fast food.

What?

I WAS ON VACATION!

I haven’t slept since we’ve been back.

Well. That’s not true. I sleep. From about midnight until 3 am. And then I wake up again.

Today-or yesterday, or Friday-I called out sick and slept the entire day.

So now, of course, it’s 5 am and I’m still awake doing the “avoid the Internet” dance.

I open my laptop. Check various Web sites, taking in nothing of importance. Close it. Try to sleep for about 10 minutes. Open laptop again. Same sites, one new tweet. Close it.

This goes on until about 7 am or so when my body finally falls asleep. I get up an hour later and go to work. Where I chug coffee and want to kill myself. Oh, the self-loathing.

I need to get back to normal.

You can find me at the Chinatown YMCA on Monday.

Unless, of course, I’m too tired.